Battered Rhyme

Finally, my big toe has stopped oozing
stinky puss;
my big toe nail trimmed far, far, far back
and swabbed with alcoholic astringent (and copious curses).
My left shoulder no longer a bulbous Quasi Modo’s hunch,
although to rest upon it causes a deadly moan ah.
Oh, nevermind, Desdemona was in Othello.
Esmerelda was the hunchback's dame.

My first injury of Bingham,
a thunderous fall on my left thigh
(such impact rattled my vainly beefy leg
right into my femur bone)
has finally diminished into a grey/green bruise
the size of a storm cloud.

Hidden on the backside of my ear
dermal scarring, no cauliflower but crudités
nonetheless.
Both knees scabrous burgundy bubbles of
mashed, marred skin placed above
shins, a splattered mosaic of brown/blue/red splotches,
wounds from various kicks/scrapes/cuts achieved
during two hundred and thirty five minutes of rugby played.

A novice sleuth may easily deduce
the violent, violet handprints crossing my
biceps and pectorals. Tackles attempted
(and failed, thank you).

Deep inside, hidden from eyes,
lays a strained string of muscle,
snaking along my stomach’s underside.

And as I type, my hands
(once mirror images) appear distorted
as though seen through a carnival’s glass.
The right, as normal as ever it was.
The left, a sickly mustard yellow flecked
with six crimson abrasions from an
aggressive rugger’s spiked cleat;
his attempt to mash my precious lefty into ground meat!